


Indentions

by nurfherder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Frottage, Love, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:44:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nurfherder/pseuds/nurfherder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home for the first time in weeks, and it's been too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indentions

Touch is blindingly intoxicating. It’s fire in his veins, electricity in his skin, tingling over and over. Touch, anticipation. The lust for feeling, for lips, for a tongue, for a pair of strong, rough hands and the heavy weight of a body settling between his legs and pressing into his chest.  _Memory foam_ , Castiel thinks. He remembers it like new information every time they come back to the bunker. The lack of a spring-set bounce jars his spine as they fall too hard and too fast. But they don’t stop; it’s been too long. Too long since any of this, since the smell of Dean has been so beautifully, perfectly close. They are alone, for the first time in weeks, and this time there is no case, no emergency, nothing except each other and Dean’s hands on either side of Castiel’s shoulders, bearing him down and down and down.

Dean gives a heady grind of his hips, and Castiel doesn’t have to censor his groan, the bite in the back of his throat as Dean moves again and again, the sound of Dean’s breathing dizzying. There’s too much clothing in the way, and Castiel is scrambling to remove it, because he needs to feel; he needs the glory of feeling and the sound of their skin together. He knows that nothing in his life before has ever felt this good or felt this right. Castiel is no longer an Angel of the Lord, but with Dean’s mouth over his, it doesn’t really matter anymore.

Their shirts are gone. Dean has pulled back, and they are trying to work at each other’s buttons and zippers, yanking down in impatience on jeans and grunting as they refuse to give, catching on spread thighs and swelling erections. Eventually, Dean works his pants to his knees, and Castiel shucks his own away. And Dean disappears, his head ducking down as though he couldn’t wait, as though he’s been dreaming of this moment, and God, maybe he has. Maybe he’s been thinking about this just as long and just as much as Castiel, tucking the heat of his lips and the wet of his tongue against the cotton of Castiel’s briefs, mouthing at the bulge beneath.

Castiel fists his fingers in Dean’s hair. He widens his legs, and he sighs, his stomach catching and locking, and he is somewhere between perfectly relaxed and perfectly taut, his muscles pulling and shoving, his hips circling. Dean is humming and the buzz of his lips runs a wire up through Castiel’s spine. This is too slow. This is too fucking slow. “Dean,” he growls, and Dean obeys.

The underwear is gone—Dean stands and frees himself—and they are finally undone from their shackles. The room is cold but the bed is so warm, curving to the slide of Castiel’s back and arms and ass and shoulders. Dean has aligned them, he’s notched them together, and Castiel knows, he can see from the look in Dean’s eyes, that this is going to be quick and hard. And thank God, too. They need this, they fucking need this. Eyes locked together, tongues twisting to join and give more and more space, to allot more and more to each other.

Dean is moving— _fuck, yes, God_ —he is moving, and Castiel adjusts. They angle, re-angle, and then finally they both have it. Their dicks are locked into the tight space of each other’s hips, and they move together. Dean is music, making such fucking sounds, his mouth confused and unsure of what to do, to form words or kiss his partner. “Fuck, yes, Cas…”

They kiss, they part. They sound obscene and Castiel is alight. They stare at each other, stare into each other.  _Time—God!—time_ , Castiel prays.  _Give us time. Give us every second of this night, please_ _._  And he kisses Dean, and he sings the prayer in a moan.  _Give us all of time_.

Dean leans back and he fists and hand between them, and they just want to come. They just want to paint each other and be together. Case after case after case—not even able to hold each other’s hands or hold each other—only able to meet each other’s eyes and look. Such greedy looks—looks no one should ever see but each other—the way they are looking at each other now.

Dean grunts—he is losing control of his voice and Castiel pants along with him. Castiel reaches down and joins their fingers together, and they work their hands, their palms tight and twisting and hard and fast.  _Please_ , Castiel thinks again, and then he realizes he’s saying it. “Please… please…”

And after hours, days, weeks of wanting, weeks of needing, they come. Not perfectly together, but fucking close enough. They stripe each other’s chests and stomachs, and Dean’s neck is arched back so beautifully, his eyes closed, his lips open in a shameless O. Castiel’s voice is settled in the back of his throat, rolling his hips up into Dean as they ride out the end. They hold each other’s cocks and slide their fingers up and down, lazily pulling until the flesh turns soft, until the blood returns to the rest of their bodies, and Dean collapses forward into Castiel’s mouth.

There are always words in this moment, but they remain unsaid. Castiel can never piece them together; his mind is blank with ecstasy and filled instead with Dean. Some day, Castiel wants to figure out what those words are trying to say, and he wants to say them. He thinks, in some moments, that he already knows what it is he wants to say. And he thinks, in those moments, that Dean knows too.

Dean kisses Castiel’s chin and jaw, lips sloppy and stunned, a smile stretching them open as his teeth catch and nibble on stubble. They hold hands, they wrap their arms around each other. They have tonight. All of tonight to feel each other, inside and out. To come again and again, saying each other’s names and drowning in each other’s bodies. They have all of tonight to indent their forms on Dean’s memory foam mattress, hands and elbows and knees. And in the morning, when they leave, the mattress will still remember them, waiting until they return home again.


End file.
